Finding Answers
by BlueWolfCountess
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In the point of view or Anne, the unknown Holmes sister. Follow her as she searches to discover the secrets behind her brothers death and his last moments. With the aid of familiar faces, she is thrown into the life Sherlock left behind. Lestrolley shipping is included. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!
1. Endings and Beginnings

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock. All rights remain with the proper people. All the characters, except Anne, belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am just a fan.**

**Chapter 1**

Anne Holmes. The unknown sister of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. That's me. No surprise really. With Mycroft practically _being _the British government, Sherlock as the one and only consulting detective, and both total geniuses, there was no shock.

I'm never mentioned by them-I just know it. But I prefer it that way.

I get a call once a year, on my birthday, from Mycroft. He says minimum contact from him is for my own safety. Having the job he does, that is understandable. I get nothing from Sherlock; it had been that was for a long time.

But that's to be expected. Sherlock and I never got along. He always said I had too much emotion-that I cared too much. But what does he expect? I am only human, after all. I could never figure out what he is-he has as much emotion as a rock.

Today was an ordinary day – or so I thought.

I was running around my flat, getting ready for work. I was already late when I received a phone call.

I looked at my mobile: Mycroft. Why would he be calling? Today was not my birthday.

I answered.

"Mycroft, hello, this is a surprise. Did you forget the date?" I teased.

"Hello, Anne. I was hoping we could meet sometime today," came the reply.

I hesitated in responding; that was an unusual request.

"Sure, Mycroft. Where would you like to meet?"

"Oh, I'll have someone come by to pick you up. Be ready in half an hour. Don't worry about your job."

Before I could object, he continued, I will arrange for you to have today off. You can go tomorrow instead."

Half an hour later and I found myself in a black car with tinted windows sitting next to a rude-looking woman on her mobile.

"Where are we going?" I asked her.

No response.

Fine. Mycroft could have at least sent someone amiable to pick up his little sister.

Not much later, and the car pulled up to a fancy-looking club.

The woman got out of the car and I followed suit.

"He will be waiting for you in the lobby," she said, not looking up from her device.

I walked in and looked around. Mycroft was across the lobby, staring at a painting.

I strolled up to him, "Mycroft."

He turned around, "Anne, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Please follow me to a more private room."

I complied and followed him down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and into a room.

After the door shut behind us, I gave Mycroft a hug.

He hesitated for a second before returning the hug. Just a short, gentle hug. But that was Mycroft. He was always a reserved, personal man who preferred minimal physical contact. But he always saved a special hug for me, his favorite, when we were younger.

We separated and sat down on comfy chairs across from each other.

"Mycroft! I haven't seen you-actually seen you-in ages! What do I owe this grace of your presence?"

"Anne, my dear Anne. I'm afraid you wouldn't be seeing me now if it weren't for a rather sorrowful matter," Mycroft said gravely.

"What? What has happened?" I asked, suddenly wary.

"It concerns our dear brother, Sherlock," he said.

"What? Has he gone and finally found himself a problem too difficult to solve? Has his brain imploded because of it?"

"Anne, he's dead. Sherlock is…dead. He died about a week ago."

I suddenly wished I could take back my last comment.

Sherlock, dead? We never got along, but I felt the sting of loss none-the-less. Sherlock, gone. Sure he was a – and I quote – "high functioning sociopath". Sure, he had a sick fascination with murder and crime. But dead? Death was so final. Who would have imagined the great detective, the one who solved so many murder mysteries, would be dead himself.

Sherlock, dead.

Suddenly the world came crashing back; reality shattered back into place.

"I…oh, oh my goodness." I clapped my hands to my mouth. After a moment, I slowly lowered them.

"How did he die? I'm assuming it was in the paper, but I never…" I trailed off into silence.

"I guessed as much. You haven't read the paper in a while. It is one of the reasons I came to you personally. You ought to know," Mycroft paused, and I could tell he was struggling with what he wanted to say next.

"Concerning how he died…you really want to know?" He finally asked.

"Yes. I believe I deserve to know," I said.

"He…commit suicide." Mycroft gave a heavy sigh.

"Sherlock, commit suicide? I though he loved himself too much for that!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

"Anne"" Mycroft scolded sternly. "Do not make a joke of this. It is apparent we did not know Sherlock as well as we thought. He was always odd, but now is not the time…"

"Sorry, Mycroft." I felt ashamed. I changed tracks, "Was it all in the paper? Was there an obituary? I stopped reading the paper when Sherlock began making front page news every other day. I felt it was like he was indirectly bragging about his 'brilliance'."

"Ah, but Anne, we both know you bread the blog – not his personal blog, the other one," he gave a wry smile.

"Yes, alright I do. But that is because Sherlock wasn't doing the blogging, his blogger – friend? – was. Or was he an acquaintance? Anyway, if Sherlock was in charge of that blog, no one would read it. It would be a replica of his personal blog – rants on the stupidity of everyone else, and what it must be like in our "funny little heads"."

I paused, "But now he is gone. How are you, Mycroft?"

"Oh, you know life goes on. I will grieve in my own way, as shall you. We are of the Holmes family, after all."

I nodded.

"How is his…blogger?" I hesitated.

"John Watson is coping. I believe he was Sherlock's only friend. Sherlock was his best friend. They were close – as close as Sherlock is emotionally capable of being to someone."

That put a smile on my face. It was short-lived as I asked, "When is the funeral service?"

"In two days. You should be there, Anne."

I thought about it for a moment, then replied, "I will go. But I will keep my distance from everyone else. No one knows who I am – don't give me that look, you know Sherlock never mentioned me, and that way no one will be wondering, "Who is that strange girl?"."

"If that is what you prefer. I will see you again after the service sometime, I suppose."

"Sounds good," I got up, as did Mycroft.

"Do I get a ride back to my flat?" I asked, teasing.

"Of course. Anthea is waiting outside for you. I will see you soon."

"Bye, Mycroft," I said, leaving the room and going back down to the lobby.

Once outside, I was escorted into another black car by that rude woman – Anthea, Mycroft said her name was.

The whole way home I thought about Mycroft's unfortunate news.

It almost seemed surreal. Maybe that was because Sherlock and I were never close. If we had been closer, how differently would this news have affected me?

And John. Poor John. I was bluffing to Mycroft when I pretended to know nothing of John. John did the blog. He gave it humor and a sense of decent humanity.

That was probably why I found him so interesting. He was so _opposite _Sherlock. It intrigued me that they got along. That Sherlock could find a friend in this man, and yet have no relationship with his own sister. With me.

John was the main reason I followed their blog in the first place.

It hit me that I felt sad for John. While I was confused about my own sorrow over Sherlock's death, there was no doubt John would be hurting the most. I felt sad for John's pain. How interesting.

The car pulled up to my little apartment, and I got out, thanking the driver.

Before going inside, I paused, and turned around.

I walked up to the newspaper stand across the street, and for the first time in a long while, I picked up a newspaper.

I paid for it and trudged slowly back across the street to my place.

Opening the front door, I began to feel a strong numbness creep into my skin and bones.

I shuddered.

I walked up the stairs, through the living room, and into my bedroom.

I sat numbly down on my bed, staring blankly at the cover of the paper.

And, surprising myself, I began to cry over the loss of my brother.


	2. The Favor

**Chapter 2**

_Two days later – the funeral._

That morning I slowly clad myself in mourning clothes. I wore a grey dress topped with a knee-length black overcoat. On my hands were formal black gloves, and my raven hair was pulled back into a bun.

With directions to the cemetery crumpled in a fist, I walked down the streets of London.

I had decided that walking was the best outlet for my feelings, as well as a way to prolong reaching the cemetery.

By the time I arrived, the ceremony was nearly over; the casket had already been lowered into the ground and covered.

There was a small group surrounding the gravesite– five to be exact.

I slowly made my way nearer, careful to remain unseen.

Once close enough, I remained hidden behind a large tree, peaking around it to watch the bereft group.

I saw Mycroft; he was facing my direction. He gave me a short, nearly unnoticeable nod before turning his gaze back to the ground.

Looking away from others, I took note of the other attendees.

There was Detective Inspector Lestrade – I recognized him from the telly.

A woman, young with brown hair, was by the Inspector's side. He had a hand on her shoulder.

I wondered for a brief moment if she had been Sherlock's girlfriend, before I shook the thought away. Sherlock had never been capable of feelings strong enough to maintain a relationship like that. Maybe she was with the Inspector.

Next to them was an older woman – Sherlock's landlady, Mycroft had informed me.

And next to her was…

"Ah," I breathed out. "So that is John Watson."

He was shorter than I pictured.

His back was turned so I couldn't see his face, but he seemed tattered, threadbare, as if he hadn't eaten well for several days.

His shoulders were slumped, and I could tell he was trembling.

A tear slid down my cheek. I touched it, surprised.

Was I crying for Sherlock, or John? Maybe both.

I watched as gradually, the already small crowd thinned.

First the Inspector and the girl left, then Mycroft.

He gave me one more near-imperceptible nod before turning to go.

I had a feeling I would be seeing him again very soon.

Now it was only John and the landlady, though soon she left as well.

John was now alone, or so he thought. He was saying something. I couldn't make out much, only one word – miracle.

What was he talking about?

I suddenly felt intrusive. This was obviously meant to be private.

I looked away and turned around, leaning on my tree.

When John left, I waited for him to be out of sight before timidly making my way towards Sherlock's grave.

I knelt down next to the freshly dug earth.

"Good-bye, dear brother," I touched the headstone.

Running my fingers along the engraving on the headstone, I mumbled, "We never got along, but you will always have a place in my heart. We are family, after all. Sleep well, Sherlock."

I got up and turned around. I had momentarily felt like I was being watched. But looking round, I saw I was alone.

I shrugged, thinking that maybe I was just being paranoid.

But walking away from the gravesite that day, I had no idea I wasn't the only one watching the funeral from afar.

A month passed, then another, then three more. Life kept moving forward.

"I can't believe you are getting married in two months!" I gushed.

"I know!" My best friend and flat-mate Jenika smiled. " I thought for sure you would get married before me."

"Oh shut up!" I threw a pillow at Jen's face.

We subsided into silence. After a moment Jen spoke, "Anne, are you okay?"

"What?" I asked, surprised, "I'm fine. Why?"

"Well," Jen lowered her voice, "your brother died…five months ago?" Her comment turned into a question.

"Yes, five," I commented. "But I'm fine. Sherlock and I hadn't spoken in years before he died."

"Don't you feel sad, though?"

"Well of course I do! But there is no point mourning for the rest of my life. It takes up energy."

"Mourning isn't a bad thing, Anne. It is what makes us so _human_."

I thought for a moment before responding, "I am mourning still, a little. I am mourning by continuing to live life, and being thankful I am alive. I'm living, and I'm doing it in Sherlock's memory."

"Oh Anne, you are so unusual."

"I guess it is part of being a Holmes," I laughed.

Jen hesitated then asked, "Do you ever wish you had known Sherlock better? That your relationship with him had been improved?"

"…yes, and no. If I knew him better, his death might have had a bigger impact on me. But I do wish I had taken more time to get to know him."

"You never know, if you had been on close terms with Sherlock, I might not be the only one to know about the family relation," Jen smiled.

"It is better if not everyone knows my relation with Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft says so, and I agree completely, though probably for a different reason," I said.

"Well, I am off to work," Jen said, getting up.

Glad she ended the conversation, I got up and stretched, "Bye, Jen. Tell Matt I said 'hello'."

As soon as Jen left, I walked into the kitchen to clean.

Half an hour later, I received a phone call from Mycroft.

"Hello, Mycroft. I honestly expected you to call sooner. How are you?"

"I'm doing well. I need to speak with you again," he said, sounding tired.

"Alright, should I look out for a black car again?" I inquired.

"No, no. I am going to visiting you. I will arrive in an hour."

Slightly confused, I agreed and hung up.

A house call…Mycroft never makes house calls.

An hour later, a knock sounded at the door.

I opened it and grinned, "Hello, Mycroft. Come in and make yourself at home."

He entered and sat down on the comfy arm chair by the window.

"So why the house call?" I asked.

"I have a matter of importance to discuss with you," Mycroft responded.

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You remember John Watson? He was at the funeral."

"The short one. Yes, I remember," I said, thinking of the private moment I had secretly intruded upon.

"It has now been five months since the death of our dear brother. John is not doing so well. He moved out of the Baker Street flat for a few months, but moved back in a couple weeks ago. Mrs. Hudson talked him into it. He agreed on the condition that some of Sherlock's possessions get boxed rather than sold after his death. But that is not the pressing issue. His therapist says he doesn't seem to be recovering at all. His psychosomatic limp has even returned," Mycroft finished with a solemn air.

"Mycroft!" I exclaimed, alarmed. "Why are you talking to his therapist? I thought there are patient-confidentiality laws. Why on earth are you unrightfully using your authority to gain confidential information about John? He's probably seeing a therapist because he knows she can't tell anyone!" I scolded.

Calm down, Anne. I'm worried about John."

"That still gives you no right to –" Mycroft held up his hand. "Anne, let me finish explaining things to you."

"He has been having a hard time lately. He has stopped going to work. He won't talk to anyone willingly. I've stopped by; the Inspector has stopped by; Molly –"

"Who? That girl going out with the Inspector?" I cut in.

Mycroft looked impatient, "Yes. She is a mortician and a friend of John and Sherlock when he was alive. He won't talk to Mrs. Hudson either. Not unless it has to do with financial matters. Like I said though, he has moved back into 221B Baker Street."

"And you are telling me all this, why?" I asked.

"He is lonely, Anne," Mycroft paused, "I'm asking for a favor."

Suspiciously, I prodded, "What is it?"

"Will you…go visit John? I believe we – that is to say Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and I – are too strong a reminder of Sherlock."

I thought about it. Someone who shunned living reminders yet kept some of the material stuff. John sounded like a confusing man. Or maybe just a confused man. Grieving people tend to act a bit strange.

"But I – like you – am a relative of Sherlock's. We may have never gotten along, nut I'm still a blood relative. Won't I also be a reminder?"

"That's the thing, the key," Mycroft interjected. "You may be related to Sherlock, but we both know you were total opposites. He was entirely logic and hard fact; you are more intuition and emotion. I believe you someone who is not a huge reminder, but being Sherlock's sister, you are still a little – hopefully just enough –a reminder for him to let go and move on."

"So you want me to be a…a…gateway? A replacement?" I asked, incredulous.

"A friend. John needs a friend, and because of your unusual relationship with Sherlock, he may accept your friendship without feeling guilty, or a betrayal to Sherlock's memory."

"And you think he will accept my…friendship?" I asked, still unsure.

"I believe so," Mycroft nodded.

"How often would you want me to go visit John?" I asked.

"Just a couple times a week. You will be helping him emotionally. So be there enough."

I once again pictured that private moment in the cemetery, and made up my mind. Maybe John did need help to heal and move on. And maybe I was the person to help that happen.

Mycroft's plan seemed very flawed; he seemed to be grasping at straws at this point. But I conceded. It couldn't hurt to try.

"Okay, Mycroft, but you owe me," I said.

Mycroft flinched at those words,

"What? Is it so terrible to owe your sister a favor?" I asked.

"No, it is simply that phrase brings up memories of a similar expression that led to…a bad memory," Mycroft frowned.

Something stirred in my brain, "Does it have anything to do with the events surrounding Sherlock's death? There was something vague about it in the paper," I paused, "What is the full story on Sherlock's death?"

"Anne, now is not the time, and even if it was, I do not know the full story. John is the only one with the whole truth. He has told me his story, but I know he is not telling me everything. You will have to ask him if you want the full truth."

"Oh, alright."

"This weekend would be a good time for your first visit," Mycroft suggested.

"I'll go visit John after work Saturday or Sunday, then. Will you keep in touch?"

"If my schedule permits. But I dare say I will give you a call once a month if I can."

We got up and I walked Mycroft to the door.

"I'll be seeing you then." I grabbed the door handle and pulled it open.

"Anne, I appreciate this. It may even help you find closure as well," Mycroft said, walking into the hall.

"No problem." I shut the door, thinking.

I decided not to worry about it until, at the very least, Friday night. No need to add extra stress to my week.

I shrugged to myself, and went into my bedroom, determined to forget about my new dilemma.


	3. Introductions

**Chapter 3**

It was Saturday night, and I still couldn't think up a valid excuse to pop in on John.

My roommate was out with her fiancé, so I was alone in our flat.

I was flipping through channels on the telly when my phone rang.

"Good evening, Mycroft." I picked up.

"Good evening Anne. I take it you are planning on visiting John tomorrow?" He responded, immediately getting to the point of his call.

"Yeah. Today I was much too busy. I am planning on going over tomorrow, though I have no idea on what pretense I would be going there for." I sighed.

"That is why I am calling. Am I correct in assuming you will soon be in need of either a new roommate or a new living situation?"

"Is assuming what you call your little spies? Don't think I don't notice when I'm being followed." I revealed. "Yes, I have agreed to let Jenika and her fiancé take the flat once they are married. It is only a year old, and a very amiable home to start out a marriage in. My wedding present to them, I guess you can say. But what does that have to do with John?"

Ignoring my jab about him having me followed, he said, "I think I have a solution for both of your problems. 221B Baker Street – the flat which John and Sherlock shared – now has a vacancy due to Sherlock's death. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, has held off putting the extra room up for rent for John's sake. John even left the flat for a couple of months, but returned a few weeks ago."

Mmhhmm," I muttered, urging Mycroft to continue.

"With John returned, and the vacancy still there, Mrs. Hudson had no choice but to put the opening in the paper, leaving John with the options to either leave permanently, or stay with the possibility of a new flat-mate. John has elected to stay. I think he hopes it will remain vacant, that people will know the reason for the vacancy, and stay away."

I had an idea at what Mycroft was getting at, and I was not sure I liked it.

"So now there is an open room. Sherlock's stuff, which was originally all boxed up, have been either stored in the closet of Sherlock's old room, or up in John's room. John, while accepting the room has to be put up for rent, is adamant about keeping many Sherlock's possessions."

"What are you getting at Mycroft?" I threw in while he drew breath. I was growing impatient.

"You can go tomorrow to look at the flat – I will offer to pay the first three months' rent, as payment for the favor you would be doing me. I'm sure they would be willing to have you as the new flat-mate."

I was momentarily stunned, "Mycroft, Jen isn't getting married for two months! Plus, how do I even know if I would _want_ to live in the flat? It would be weird, on so many levels!"

"It could be like an early wedding present for your friend. I'm sure her and her fiancé would be ecstatic. Besides, you would be in a separate bedroom from John. Goodness, Anne, the bedrooms aren't even on the same floor! It is in a nice location, and Mrs. Hudson is a rather amiable person. Not to mention it is an entire block closer the little café you work at, just on the opposite side of town." Mycroft was almost pleading now. It was strange to hear him beg.

I was silent for so long that Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh before saying, "Anna, at least go over and give it a look. If anything, it is a way for you to introduce yourself to John. I think you would actually find the flat a very pleasant place."

Fine," I huffed, "You are right. I might as well give it a good look. Especially seeing how I will be looking for a new place soon anyway."

"Good," was all Mycroft said before hanging up.

"Good-bye to you too," I muttered, shutting my mobile.

When Jen came home, I told her about Mycroft's call.

"I feel like such a creep. Mycroft is asking for a lot. I mean move in as John's new flat-mate? I don't know if I can do this! Become friends with John…If he knew Mycroft put me up to it, faster than you could say "Sherlock". I feel there would be too much dishonesty as the base of the friendship," I admitted.

"Then don't do it for Mycroft," Jen responded.

"You mean don't do it? At all?" I asked, surprised.

"No," Jen corrected, "Do it for a different reason. Do it for John. Do it for Sherlock's memory. If you really want to find out the truth surrounding Sherlock's death, do it for that reason. From the sound of things, John is the only one who will be able to tell you everything."

I nodded; she had a point.

"And you never know," Jen continued, "John could bring some adventure back into your life. You are twenty-four; you need to live life while you have it! Since my engagement to Matt, our adventures have ended. No more clubs, boy hunting, and running all around London for reasons either silly or non-existent."

"Oh, Jen. You are right, as usual. I am going to miss you so much once you are married." I hugged her.

Jen laughed, "I'm getting married, not dying! We will still get together, yeah?"

"Yes, but you will be starting a family. You will have no time for silly me." I smiled.

"Well first off, I want Matt to myself for a little longer before children are even _considered._ Second, that is what Matt is for," Jen said, waving her hand airily. "I'll give him babysitting duty while I hang out with my girl."

"Well, I supposed we ought to go to bed. We both have busy days tomorrow."

I left work Sunday afternoon feeling nervous.

I had called Mrs. Hudson this morning about the flat and she had agreed to let me look at it today.

I pulled the directions from my mind, trying to remember them from this morning.

When I reached the flat, I swore under my breath. Mycroft was right about one thing already; the flat was closer to my work.

I knocked and rang the doorbell.

"It doesn't work, dear," an elderly, maternal-looking woman said, maiking me jums in surprise.

"It was broken by Sherlock, the one who used to live in the empty room," she looked sad as she spoke his name.

I felt a small pang of emotion, but shoved it aside as I asked, "Broken? How?"

"He…shot it," she murmured.

I almost smiled. That sounded like Sherlock.

Holding out my hand, I said, "I'm Anne. I called this morning about the room."

She shook it and said, "Oh yes. I am Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Feel free to look around. John is home today. He is the one you would be sharing the flat with. If you have any questions, feel free to ask either me or him."

"Thank you," I said, opening the door and walking in.

I tentatively crept up the stairs to a door on the second landing.

I knocked and slowly opened the door.

John Watson was sitting on a chair, typing on his laptop.

He looked up as I pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Surprise appeared on his face.

"Hello," I said slowly. "I'm Anne. I'm here to look at the flat. I'm looking to rent the extra bedroom."

A look of incredulity momentarily crossed his face before he covered it with a smile.

Another thing Mycroft was right about – John _had _believed no one would come to look at the flat.

He started to get up, "Hello. I'm John Watson. Would you like a tour of the place?"

"Oh! No need to…" I trailed off, glancing at the walking stick leaning on the chair.

John noticed my glance and smiled again, "It's no problem."

He showed me around the main area.

Once again, Mycroft was right. I cursed him mentally; this apartment was in a nice location.

The main living room was connected to the kitchen, which had its own door to the landing.

John led me to a short hallway at the back of the kitchen.

"This," he said opening a door on the left, "is the only bathroom."

I looked at him, surprised, "There is only one bathroom?"

"Well, there is a space for one upstairs, but we…er…never got around to actually doing anything about it," John shrugged.

Nodding, I pointed to the door straight ahead. "And this door, where does it go?"

Opening the door, John responded, "This would be the bedroom for rent. This used to be…Sherlock's room. But as you can see, it is vacant now. He's…left."

A wave of sorrow crossed John's face. Trying to cover up his sudden display of emotion, he asked, "So, what do you think?"

I walked in and looked around.

To the very left of the door was another door, presumably leading to the bathroom. I was thankful to see the lock was on the outside of that door. No need for any awkward situations.

Next to that door was a queen sized bed with plain white sheets.

To the left of that was a nightstand with a simple lamp as the only accessory.

Straight across from the bed was a window.

I walked over and peeked out. The view was only another building.

I turned right to face the closet, walked up to it, and tentatively opened the door.

There were a few boxes on the shelf above the clothes pole and in the corner on the floor.

I shut the door and turned right, having made a full turn of the room.

John stood in the doorway, watching me with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity.

"It's quaint. I like it." I gave him a smile and walked out.

John led me back through the kitchen into the living room.

It was upon closer inspection of the room that I noticed a yellow spray-painted smiley face on one of the walls.

I walked up to it and noticed bullet holes.

"Who has been using the wall as target practice?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Ah…that would have been Sherlock, my old flat-mate. He used to do strange things when he was bored."

"When he was bored?" I repeated questioningly.

John just shrugged.

I realized it would take some effort to get John to talk about Sherlock, especially if I wanted him to tell me what happened during and around the time of Sherlock's death.

"Come on," John said, hastily changing focus. "The tour is almost finished."

I stepped back and turned around to follow him onto the landing.

He turned up a flight of stairs, me following closely behind.

John opened the door, and without stepping inside, said, "This is my bedroom."

I peeked inside and saw it wasn't much different than the other bedroom. It had a couple personal belongings here and there, but was, for the most part, very neat and clean.

"If you elect to rent the other bedroom, just know I am up here. If you were to need anything, you could ask Mrs. Hudson or me. You could feel free to knock on my door any time you need anything. I do spend most of my time in the living room, but if I'm not there, I will probably be up here in my bedroom." John commented.

I nodded and started back down the stairs.

On the landing I turned to John, "I really like the place. I may be seeing you again soon."

John smiled, though I could tell he felt a bit sad and crestfallen, and held out his hand, "It was a pleasure to meet you."

I shook it and returned the sentiment.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson was walking in through the front door.

"How do you like the place?" she asked.

"It is very nice. John gave me a tour. I wanted to talk to you about signing a lease. I think I would like to take the room." I smiled.

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight. "Follow me to my office."

I followed her into a small office, and hoped this wouldn't be a decision I would regret.

The next day I walked to the apartment on Baker Street after work.

I used a key to get in; Mrs. Hudson had given it to me yesterday after I had signed the papers.

Once again, after reaching the second landing, I knocked and opened the door.

Seeing an empty room, I walked in timidly.

"Hello, again," a voice said, making me jump and spin around to the source of the noise.

John was standing in the kitchen with a plate of food in his hands.

"Hello, John," I said brightly.

"What brings you back?" he asked, walking over to the cluttered table in the living room and setting the plate down.

"I am your new flat-mate!" I announced.

John stood stock-still, a look of shock on his face.

"What? Do you think I will be a dreadful flat-mate? I assure you I won't be a bother." I fake pouted at him.

Coming out of his shock, he shook his head. "No, no, that's not it. I just didn't think…" he trailed off.

"You didn't think the place would go so fast? You didn't think anyone would take it because you believed they would all be aware of the situation with your previous flat-mate? That by leaving it alone, they were being sensitive to Sherlock's death? John, that is some pretty flawed logic." I blurted it out before I could stop myself; then clapped my hand to my mouth with a gasp.

I lowered my hands slowly, my eyes fixed on John.

He looked utterly bewildered, and slightly upset.

I realized that I actually didn't regret saying it; instead I presented myself with the perfect opening into telling John who I really was.

Before he could speak, I confided, "And speaking of Sherlock, since we are going to be flat-mates, you should know something about me."

I paused, and John nodded for me to go on.

"I am a…relative of Sherlock's." I hesitated slightly.

John took a step back. "You…what? Is this some sort of sick joke?

He paused, a look of anger and disgust on his face.

"How are you related to Sherlock?"

"Well, let's just say I was always mother's favorite." My voice dripped with the implication.

"…mother…you're Sherlock's sister?" A look of sheer disbelief replaced the anger on his face.

"His younger sister, yes."

"How come Sherlock never mentioned you? How do I know you are telling the truth?" he shot at me.

"John, would you have known about Mycroft if he hadn't come to you?" I raised my eyebrows.

John was silent, and I knew I had gotten him there.

"Sherlock never mentioned his family if her could help it," he muttered.

"Me especially, I dare say. But if you need more proof, Mycroft can vouch for me. Or my family tree. Either one, really." I let slip.

A look of suspicion crossed John's face. "Did Mycroft put you up to this? Are you actually one of his lackeys?"

Indignantly, I retorted, "Did you seriously just call me a lackey? Honestly, Mycroft may be the oldest, but that does not mean I am his little dog to be commanded at will."

I glared at John.

"Alright, alright, I just wasn't sure. So what brings you here now? You know, after Sherlock's passing. Are you really looking to rent that bedroom?" he asked.

"A number of circumstances have brought me here now, one of which being that I really do need a new place to live. My roommate is getting married and I'm giving her our flat." I divulged.

"But that's not the only reason?" he prodded.

"No."

When I didn't elaborate, John threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Holmes and their secrets!"

I smiled. That sounded about right.

"With that piece of information out in the open, I look forward to being flat-mates, and ask that you don't treat me like I am Sherlock and Mycroft's sister. I would prefer you treat me the way you would have had this information not been disclosed to you. I am very different than my brothers, so that should hopefully not be too difficult."

John nodded in agreement.

"Well, I look forward to getting to know you, John." I smiled, and walking down the stairs called out, "I will be moved in some time in the next two weeks."


	4. French Toast

**Chapter 4**

"Are you sure you are okay with this?" I asked Jenika for the umpteenth time.

"For goodness sake, Anne! You've asked me that way too many times in the last two weeks. I. Am! The papers have all been turned over to Matt and I, plus all of your stuff has already been moved over to the Baker Street place. It is too late to back out now," Jen scolded.

She was right, as usual.

"Oh, Jen, I am leaving you a month early. We must still do tons of things before your wedding."

"Duh. You are not moving very far away, and this gives Matt and I time to get things settled in. Otherwise we would be doing everything after the honeymoon," she said.

Before I could say anything, Jen continued, "Now go. John is waiting for you," she winked.

I grabbed my bag and pushed her, jokingly.

"Don't you even. You have no time for your silly matchmaking antics."

Jen pouted, "But you are moving in with a _guy. _If he is not gay, then sparks may fly."

"Jen! I am there to find out information, and nothing more!" I exclaimed.

Jen saw me blush and gasped, "But he is cute, yes? He must be somewhat cute if you are turning that shade!" She fell back on the couch, giggling.

Blushing deeper, I shot back, "I'm only blushing because it is going to be a tad but weird sharing a flat with a guy. That is _all _there is to it: weirdness."

Jen snorted, "Whatever, you liar."

I stuck my tongue out at her and walked to the door. "I'll be seeing you Jen."

I was passing Speedy's Café, a block from Baker Street, when I received a call from Mycroft.

"So you did take it then. I was quite right about everything, wasn't I?" Mycroft said smugly when I answered my mobile.

"Oh hush, Mycroft. I'm taking it on one condition."

"And what may that be?" he asked.

"You pay for six months of rent, not three." I said stubbornly.

"Oh all right. I suppose that is fair enough, considering the magnitude of the favor I have asked," he sighed.

"Yes, I dare say it is." I smirked.

"Well, on that note, I will go. But I will be in touch with you every so often."

"Yes, I know. Bye, Mycroft." I hung up just as I reached the front door of 221B.

Mrs. Hudson opened the front door as I was ascending the stairs. "Hello dear. Are you all settled in?"

I turned around to face her, "Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think I will like it here."

"John is upstairs. I am sure he would be glad to assist you if you need anything."

I nodded my thanks and continued my climb up the stairs.

I reached the upper landing to find the door open.

Walking through, I couldn't find anyone around.

"Hmmm…" I mumbled. "He must be up in his room. No matter."

I walked through the kitchen and stopped at the door to my new bedroom, my hand resting hesitantly on the handle.

Taking a slow breath, I opened it.

The room had undergone a complete transformation. To the left of the window, a dresser had been added, equipped with a mirror. The windows were now covered with soft blue curtains, and the walls hung with various items: pictures of Jen and I at University, copies of my favorite paintings, and random sketches I had drawn over the course of many years.

The plain white sheets that had previously occupied the bed were now replaced with sea green covers and lilac blankets and pillows.

Just by looking at my room, you could tell how different I was from my brothers. They always had a great fascination with science and math and facts. I, on the other hand, preferred to study English, art, and culture.

Don't get me wrong, we are all equally intelligent (though neither of the boys would admit it). We just excel in different areas.

The only thing similar between us was what our parents chose to teach us.

Among other things, our parents ensured that we were each fluent in at least three languages.

Mycroft had gone further and learnt six languages. I had learnt one more, and Sherlock, I wasn't really sure.

I sat on my bed and looked at the nightstand. Next to the clock was a picture of Jen and me on the night after she got engaged.

I knew it was coming, of course – Matt had asked my help in finding a ring.

Still reminiscing, I turned my gaze once again to my new room. It was then that I noticed a small parcel on my dresser.

I walked over and picked it up, shaking it lightly. Based on the weight and sound, I knew what it was.

Confused, I opened the little card on top of the parcel.

Anne,

Welcome to 221B Baker Street. I hope you find it to your liking. Here is a little housewarming gift to help you settle in.

From,

John Watson and Mrs. Hudson

Thinking maybe I was wrong, I looked back at the box.

I opened the parcel to find that I was right – John had given me…an ashtray.

I looked once more at the note, "housewarming gift" it said. Why on earth would John give an ashtray as a housewarming gift? And an expensive ashtray, at that.

I set both the note and the ashtray down on my dresser, confused.

"Sherlock must have worn off on him," I muttered.

Just then, I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door.

"Come in," I called, turning to face the door.

The door opened and John poked his head in. "Hello. Just checking to see if you have settled in all right."

"Yes, I have, thank you. And thank you for the gift." I replied.

"Do you like it?" he asked with such sincerity that I felt compelled to smile and respond, "Yes. It is fantastic. Where did you get it? It looks expensive."

"It…" John hesitated, then continued, "It came from Buckingham Palace. Sherlock stole it on one of our trips there. I thought that maybe you would want something of his, as a keepsake."

It suddenly occurred to me just how kind John was. This was obviously a cherished item of his-we all keep items of good memories-and now John was sharing that memory with me, attached to the small ashtray on the table behind me. It was also symbolic of his acceptance of me into his life. He was okay with his new flat-mate being his deceased best friend's sister.

I smiled, touched. "Thank you. I didn't realize it has such sentimental value. You are an amazing person to have the courage to part with such an item."

John nodded. He was looking down, but I could detect a small smile on his lips.

Knowing it was time to change the subject, I said, "So, what do you usually do for dinner around here?"

"Usually I go out, or order food. I sometimes make an omelet, or toast…or salad. I can do salad," John said, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Then salad it is!" I clapped my hands and walked into the kitchen; John followed.

Alright, you make the salad, and I'll see if I can whip something up from what I find around the kitchen.

John nodded and pulled out the necessary ingredients for a nice salad.  
I inwardly smiled. When I rented the extra room, I never considered the possibility that John may not know how to cook. Omelets, toast, and salad were a start. I would have to teach him to cook other things; otherwise I would end up making all the meals.

Looking in the fridge, I found milk and eggs.

I went over to where the bread was, and set my items on the counter next to it.

Scanning the kitchen, I asked John, "Hey, where do you keep the pans?"

"They should be under the corner cupboard," he said pointing to it.

I went over, and grabbing a pan out, I gasped.

It was covered in the dry, hardened residue of some substance I didn't want to identify.

"What is it?" John inquired, walking over.

Wordlessly, I held the pan out to him.

He stared at it a moment, then, "Oh."

"Oh? Never mind. Just clean it." I demanded, disgusted.

I looked in the cupboard and found a clean pan.

I heard John washing the gross pan while I began to mix some eggs with milk.

With some tentative searching, I managed to locate some cinnamon sugar, and added it to the mixture.'

John finished his little chore, and came over. "It is cleaned. Also the salad is ready."

"Fantastic. The main dish of our meal is in the works."

"What are you making?" he asked curiously.

I looked at him surprised. It must have been a while since he's had French toast.

"It is French toast. Why don't you help me out?" I grinned.

"I haven't cooked in a long time, other that the items aforementioned. I might end up burning it, "he said, uncertain.

"Oh no you won't," I said, putting butter on a pan and putting it on the stove-top."

I turned the burner on and continued, "Just take a piece of bread, dip both sides in the mix, and set it on the pan. After a couple of minutes, flip it over. Do that until both sides are nice and golden brown, then take it off, put on a plate, and repeat with the other pieces of bread. Do six."

"Okay, but if they turn out burnt, don't say I didn't warn you," he cautioned.

"Great! I'll set the table."

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at the table digging into our dinner.

"This French toast is not bad. You only blackened half the pieces," I congratulated John.

He smiled, "Thanks."

Then John turned serious. "I think we may be expecting the Detective Inspector tomorrow. He said he was going to stop by some time before noon. Just a heads-up."

"Oh, alright. I have to work at one, so I guess I'll be here to meet him," I said.

We finished and cleaned up.

"Well, I am off to bed. Thank you for dinner, my fine cooking apprentice," I winked at him, and walked into my bedroom.

Closing my door, I breathed out a sigh. Tomorrow I would begin my search for the secrets behind Sherlock's death.


	5. Observations

**Chapter 5**

I woke up at seven to the sound of the shower.

I groaned and rolled over. I would have to talk with John about renovating space for a bathroom up in his area.

Sitting up in bed, I sighed. Now that I was awake, I might as well get up.

I figured I had at least ten minutes to sneak in the kitchen for breakfast before John was out of the bathroom. Then I could take my turn.

I poured a bowl of cereal, then walked around the living room aimlessly while I ate.

As I walked past the computer desk, something caught my eye – a newspaper clipping, mostly hidden beneath a stack of books.

Shifting the pile, I realized it was not one clipping, but several.

I grabbed the top one and began to read. It was Sherlock's obituary. Based on the tone, it was written using various perspectives of Sherlock. The more agreeable comments were from John-Mycroft would have left it to John, I knew. But other things had the cover of nicety, but were in fact rather rude. Those would not have been from John. I wondered from whom. Near the bottom, several lines were crossed out, the strokes angry. John must have blacked them out. But what did they say?

I guessed I would have to find another copy of Sherlock's obituary, as well as the original that John sent into the papers.

It was then that I realized the shower was off.

I carefully placed the obituary back on the stack, making a mental note to read the rest of the clippings, and placed the books back on top.

Rushing to the sink, I rinsed my bowl out.

I was drying my hands on a towel when I heard the bathroom door open.

I instinctively turned around, and froze.

John was standing in the kitchen entryway, frozen in the process of wrapping a towel around his waist.

We stood there, staring at each other in mutual shock and embarrassment. Our eyes were locked onto each other, neither of us daring to look away.

A door slammed downstairs and we jumped.

Simultaneously I covered my eyes and brushed past him to my room, stammering "Oh, I'm so sorry. I-I should have-" as John spluttered, "I'm sorry. I didn't remember, didn't realize-"

Before either of us could finish our stuttered sentences, I slammed my bedroom door closed.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. My skin was tingling slightly where our arms had touched when I had brushed past him. I rubbed at my arm, baffled.

I should have realized John wouldn't be used to sharing a flat, especially not with a woman. He probably never had to worry about that sort of situation. Until now.

I couldn't prevent the image that flashed through my mind. John still retained some of his soldier physique. He had definitely been a military man, if only a military doctor.

Shaking the image from my head, I mentally chastised myself. I should not be focusing on those kinds of things.

If Jen found out, I would receive a ceaseless torrent of teasing.

Coming out of my reverie, I heard footsteps upstairs. John must have gone back to his room.

Grabbing a pair of clean clothes, I went into the bathroom to shower.

I used the heat to clear my head to what I needed to be focusing on. The Detective Inspector would be visiting today, just the introduction I could use in my search. I would also need to get John out of the house sometime so that I could finish looking at those clippings without him noticing.

Once I was finish and ready, I listened intently at my bedroom door for any noises. Once I was assured that John was not down here, I grabbed my purse and bolted from my bedroom, not slowing down until I was outside.

Breathing in the air, I looked at the grocery list I had made last night. There were a lot of things we would need if we wanted to have decent meals.

I took a cab, and spent the next couple hours picking out food necessities.

When I returned, Mrs. Hudson was opening the shop she owned next to the flat.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," I called, my arms full of grocery bags.

"Oh, hello dear. Would you like some help with those?"

"I think I've got it. Though if you could open the front door for me, that would be great." I smiled gratefully.

She held the door open for me as I walked in.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I called, walking up the stairs.

Mercifully, the upper landing door was open. I walked through and deposited my load onto the kitchen counter.

John, who had been sitting on one of the chairs reading the paper, looked up as I passed him.

"Ah, hello, Anne. Can I help you with those?" he asked, looking a bit awkward.

"That would be great! I need help putting the food away."

He got up, walked into the kitchen, and began pulling food out of bags.

"Alright," I said, opening the fridge. "So vegetables go here, fruits here, dairy here, and sauces here." I pointed to several shelves.

"Got it," John answered, placing things in their respective places.

With John's help, I was able to put the groceries away quickly.

"Thank you for your help," I said appreciatively.

"No problem." John leaned against the counter.

I had noticed last night that John was still using the cane.

I had hoped that his psychosomatic injury would abate.

He was avoiding eye contact, obviously still embarrassed about this morning.

Trying to ease the awkward silence, I attempted to engage John in casual conversation, "So what time is the Inspector stopping by?"

John met my gaze tentatively, "he called while you were out. He should be here in about…" John looked at the clock, "half an hour."

I looked at the clock too. It was nearly eleven.

"You will have to introduce me to him. I am curious to meet the famed Detective Inspector Lestrade." I admitted, smiling.

John hesitated, then smiled back. His posture relaxed when he realized I intended to withhold mention of earlier. Any awkwardness disappeared.

"So what goes on in the day-to-day life of John Watson? Walks around the neighborhood? Reading enthralling medical dictionaries? Perhaps you have a secret passion for gushy romantic soap operas? Or game shows; are you a game show type bloke?" I teased.

John grinned, "Nah, but then again I can't tell you everything. A big part of flat-mate entertainment is learning all of their weird perks."

Glad he had eased up, I agreed. "That is very true. Despite Jen and I being friends since before college, I didn't learn her passion for American boy bands until we had become roommates. She was so embarrassed when I found out. But she got me back by finding out one of my deep dark secrets." I changed my voice to a dramatic exaggerated whisper at the end.

"What did she find out?" John asked.

I smiled mischievously and waggled my eyebrows.

We moved to the chairs in the living room, and sat there chatting until we heard a knock on the open landing door.

"Come in," John acknowledged, looking towards the doorway.

The Detective Inspector walked in, followed timidly by the mortician woman.

"Hello Greg, Molly," John greeted them, getting up and shaking their hands.

"Hello John," returned the Inspector. "Sorry to intrude on your morning. I just thought it would be a good idea to drop by to speak with you on our way to lunch."

"Not at all, don't worry."

Lestrade turned to me and smiled, "Ah, so this must be your new flat-mate."

I got up from my chair and smiled back, hand outstretched, "Hello, I am Anne…Tyler."

John shot me a confused look. Thankfully our company's backs were turned and they missed it.

I gave him an almost imperceptible shake of my head.

The Inspector shook my hand, "I am Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and this is Molly Hooper."

I shook hands with Molly; Molly the mortician.

"It is good to meet you two. I have heard about you, Detective Inspector, and I must say, you have an impressive record."

Lestrade looked flattered, "Thank you. And please, call me Greg."

"How about Lestrade?" I suggested.

"That works as well." He then turned to John, serious. "Now, to business. John, I am here to ask you once more to reconsider my proposal."

"I've given you my answer, and it is no." John returned.

"Please, John. You lived with Sherlock for over a year. You acquired some of his deductive skills. You should continue the work he began. We could really use your help, John." Lestrade pleaded.

"I really don't believe I can be of any help," John argued.

"John, I know what this is really about. Sherlock died nearly six months ago. You need to move on! Of course it will never be quite the same, but do you honestly think Sherlock would have wanted you to sit in here and skulk?" Lestrade retorted sternly.

John was silent.

Through this whole encounter, I sat silently back in my chair, observing, wanting to get a feel of who these two visitors were.

Lestrade, I could tell, was genuinely concerned for John. His eyes were full of worry.

Molly stared at her feet. But when Lestrade mentioned Sherlock's passing, she looked up.

For a brief second, an unrecognizable expression crossed her face.

I frowned, puzzled. I was having a hard time reading her.

It had almost looked like guilt that flasher across her face, but I wasn't sure.

She was the mortician who had identified Sherlock's body, Mycroft had told me, so maybe it was guilt for being the one who had to do that.

But there had been something else there, in that brief look.

My eyes widened as a possible realization hit. She couldn't have been _in love_ with Sherlock, could she?

She looked over at me, as though she could sense my stare, and I dropped my gaze.

Finally, John spoke, "I will consider it."

"Thank you. I do ask for your answer by next week, though," Lestrade responded with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

I could tell that he knew he had convinced John-whether John knew it yet or not.

"Molly and I shall be off now. John, Anne." They shook hands with John and I once more leaving, her hand in his.

I waited until I heard a car drive away before turning to John and saying, "I think you should do it."

He looked taken aback. "What?"

"I really think you should do it. Lestrade is right, you know. You did acquire some of Sherlock's deductive skills. That day we first met, you were analyzing me, trying to figure me out. I could see it in your eyes." I revealed, then continued, "Plus, it would give you something to occupy your mind, as well as give us a little extra income. I'm really not sure how long you expect Mrs. Hudson to let you live here for free. Take it." I finished.

John stared at me in stunned silence. Finally, he replied, "You could tell I was analyzing you?"

"Yes, it was in the way you were staring at me. You forget – I grew up with Mycroft and Sherlock. I know when I am being analyzed. So tell me, what did you figure out? I am curious." I asked.

"Well," John said, surprised I had asked. "You are an artist. You work in a café, a nearby one, and I could tell you were suffering from a loss of some sort – which I know have an understanding of."

"Come on, was that it?" I teased.

John flushed, "I am not Sherlock. I don't do it simply because I can. I was trying to figure you out while still letting you have your privacy."

"No, you're not. And honestly, you only saw what I wanted you to see, though you did miss a thing or two. I can hide who I am very well if I want to. Even my brothers would have a difficult time figuring out my life story. If we hadn't grown up together, that is."

John looked surprised, and slightly disconcerted.

"Anyway, I believe we have digressed faintly from the main topic at hand, which is that you are good, and that you should use your talent to help Lestrade. Maybe I could even tag along sometimes if you needed any assistance, or company."

John sighed, "I guess it couldn't hurt. It is not like Lestrade is forcing me into anything. So I could take some and leave some. He wasn't very specific on my rule. He may just give me the freedom he gave Sherlock."

"Fantastic! You should probably call him tomorrow to let him know of your decision." I beamed.

If John let me tag along, I could use that freedom in police territory to continue my search.

Things were looking positive.


End file.
